


A Movie Script Ending

by Kizzia



Series: Death Cab for Cutie [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV First Person, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:00:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzia/pseuds/Kizzia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things you do in life which require a certain amount of planning. This, as far as John is concerned, is one of them. Thankfully Molly and Greg are on hand to help out and Sherlock, for once, does what he’s told.</p><p>This is the first fic to be posted (although it's actually the last one in time order) in my Death Cab for Cutie series, an explanation of which can be found <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/683064">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Movie Script Ending

‘I’m so grateful, Molly,’ I say as I slip the small package into my pocket, already making for the door. ‘Really I am.’

  
‘Happy to help,’ she answers with a broad grin, phone already in hand and thumb moving. ‘I’ve just finished with Mr Frobisher and several of his organs are more than interesting enough to keep Sherlock occupied for the afternoon.’

  
I give her one last wave as the door swings closed behind me, dashing for the stairs when I see Mike’s door start to open; I don’t have time for one of his “chats” now, not unless I want to still be here when Sherlock arrives and ruin any chance I have of actually surprising him. Luckily my evasive manoeuvre works and I’m heading out of the side entrance before my phone pings, the sound of Sherlock’s text alert still sending warmth straight through me all these months on.  
  
 _Molly has an atrophied liver. Going to Barts. Back at 6 – SH_  
  
‘Perfect,’ I say aloud to no one in particular as I head south, shoulders relaxing despite the chill in the air. Borough Market for the ingredients first, I decide as I fire a text back telling him I’ll see him for dinner, because shopping there rather than Tesco justifies both the trip to Vinopolis for the wine and a stop at Monmouth coffee for a decent caffeine injection. Then home via Greek Street to pick up one of Maison Bertaux’s Gateau Saint-Honore. I should be back at Baker Street by three at the latest and that’ll give me plenty of time to get the food on and set everything up.  
  
And it does. More than enough time, which is how I find myself at half past four with a flat that is so clean it feels slightly wrong and dithering about the final details of the gift.  
  
Stop being such an idiot, I tell myself when my fingers flat out refuse to do what I want, turning what’s supposed to be a bow into a tangled mess. How Sherlock reacts to these isn’t going to be swayed by what I’ve wrapped them in. I swallow, hard, and sit down at the end of the kitchen table that is laid up for dinner, staring blankly at the table cloth for a moment.

Am I making a huge mistake?  
  
Oh, it isn’t that I don’t want to do this. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I want this very badly indeed and it’s also something that I need to do. To make certain that Sherlock understands what he means to me.

I’d thought that he knew exactly how I feel about him; after all, everyone else on the planet had seen the connection between us before I’d figured it out and he’d shown no surprise when I finally realised what I wanted and did something about it. It never occurred to me that he might actually need me to spell it out. But then I noticed the looks directed my way whenever I spoke to an attractive woman and I heard him muttering to Skull about observable data being compromised by emotional involvement and I put two and two together and assumed that he didn’t believe the evidence of his own eyes because he felt the same way I do.  
  
Only now I’m wondering if I made five rather than four. Have I done exactly what Sherlock was describing and seen what I want to see, rather than what’s really there? Oh God! Was he actually talking about me, not himself?

I’m on my feet, heart pounding as I think back. Were those looks born out of jealousy and insecurity, as I thought at the time, or were they speculative? Was he wondering how long he’d have to put up with my attentions before I found someone else and left him blessedly alone?  
  
No, I shake my head, that’s just the fear talking. It’s normal to get worked up about things like this but I need to calm down and trust my instincts. Sherlock may not have said the words _I love you_ any more than I have but he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to. He wouldn’t be with me if he didn’t, genuinely, want everything that entails.

Except …

My stomach contracts at the thought that flashes through my head and I begin to regret the pastry I had with my coffee. Because he does do things he doesn’t want to if they are merely a stepping stone to an ultimate goal. He cries on demand, he changes his persona in a heart beat, he can fool everyone when he wants to. Including me.   
  
He didn’t  _want_  to fling himself off that roof and spend three years in the shadows dismantling Moriarty’s organisation but he did. And he’d do it again if it meant keeping us all safe. Is this just another one of those situations? That he needs me as a colleague, as a foil when he works, to the point that he’s willing to give me what he thinks I want because he believes I’ll go if I don’t get it?

Oh for Gods sake, I’m being completely ridiculous now! Sherlock may be capable of manipulating people but he’d never think such measures were needed to keep me at his side. My initial advances were tentative enough that he could have brushed them aside, just as he did that first night at Angelo’s, and no more would have been said. I’m just letting my imagination run riot and creating demons in my own head. Why can’t I just calm down?  
  
 _Because this isn’t just you sitting him down and telling him straight,_  the voice in my head that sounds a lot like Harry points out.  _You’ve gone and made a production out of it. Worse, you’re making a romantic gesture. Admittedly it’s quite an odd one, but it is a romantic gesture  nonetheless and Sherlock doesn’t do romantic. You’ve finally realised that this probably going to frighten him off._  
  
I look round the flat again and my gaze comes to rest on the box containing what now seems like a completely presumptuous purchase that he’s going to hate. Well, I’ve still got an hour. I could clear off the table, hide the box and pretend I’d just had a fancy to cook his favourite meal and spend silly money on French cake. He probably won’t think anything of it and … Oh who am I kidding? He’ll be able to tell something’s the matter the minute he walks in, probably from some insignificant detail like ... like scuffs on the carpet from all the pacing I’ve been doing. And he’ll ask and I can’t lie to him so if I don’t want it to seem like I don’t want this at all I’m just going to have to get a grip on myself and get on with it. And yet ...  
  
I stalk back over to the table to check the place settings - still half convinced that I should clear everything away and not do it at all - and nearly send the wine crashing to the floor in my agitation.  
  
‘Panicking?’ Greg says from the doorway just after I’ve righted the bottle and it almost goes straight back over.  
  
‘Jesus, Greg, don’t you know how to knock?’ I snap, feeling the colour rising in my cheeks.  
  
‘I did,’ he says easily. ‘Several times. Mrs Hudson let me in.’  
  
‘I …’ I’m not quite sure what I intend to say but, apparently, my expression is enough because Greg’s already in the kitchen, pushing me back onto the chair and heading for the kettle.  
  
‘I’d get you something stronger,’ he says as he grabs two mugs down from the cupboard, ‘but I remember you telling me that I couldn’t do this sort of thing half cut.’  
  
‘I did.’ I can’t help smiling at the memory. ‘And I stand by that. Although I have to admit that particular piece of advice was more to do with you looking like you were going to be sick. I thought that whiskey you were toying with might finish you off.’  
  
‘I was  _not_  that bad,’ Greg protests, shooting an indignant look over his shoulder before returning his attention to the tea. ‘You, on the other hand ...’  
  
‘I’m fine,’ I say automatically, earning a disbelieving laugh and a raised eyebrow as a mug is placed in front of me.  
  
‘Yeah ... and I’m the Queen of Sheba.’ Greg plonks himself down opposite and leans forward, mouth curling into a rueful smile. ‘I may not be Sherlock but I am a detective. Your leg is bouncing nineteen to the dozen, you’re a white as a sheet and,’ he says with a gesture toward the box I still haven’t got round to fixing, ‘you seem to have taken up crochet.’

‘Fuck off,’ I retort, avoiding his eyes by staring at my mug as I wrap my fingers round it and failing miserably at not feeling like I’ve been caught, metaphorically speaking, with my pants down.

Greg ignores my rudeness. ‘Yeah, like I’m going to do that.’ He sips his tea and motions for me to do the same. ‘I was just going send a text to confirm that neither you or Sherlock would be disturbed by the Yard tonight when I remembered the state I got myself in before I asked Molls. You helped me out then and ... I thought you might need the favour returning.’  
  
He’s looking at me steadily, eyes calm, face placid and I feel like I can breathe again. It doesn’t seem possible that it’s a year since I found him sitting in that pub, practically green with nerves and telling him that he had nothing to worry about; saying - with absolute certainty - that I could see, that I knew, that he and Molly were made for each other and the only thing puzzling me was why he’d waited so long.  
  
And now he’s come here to say the same thing to me.  
  
‘Thank you,’ I say sincerely as my stomach unties itself and my lungs stop feeling like they’ve been bound in rubber. ‘You’re a good mate.’  
  
Greg tilts his head to one side. ‘I don’t even get to give you the pep talk?’  
  
‘You can if you like.’ I turn in my seat and start rummaging in the kitchen drawer for some scissors to put the beleaguered ribbon out of its misery. ‘But I know what you’re going to say. And I know you’re right.’  
  
‘Good! Then my work here is done.’ Greg drains his mug and stands, clapping me on the shoulder as he does. ‘I’d wish you luck but … well, it’s you and Sherlock. The pair of you have always made your own.’

  
  
                                                                                                                             oOo

  
  
‘I said out,’ Molly says firmly, plucking the scalpel out of my hand and glaring at me with a ferocity that she never used to possess. ‘It’s nearly six o’clock. You should be on your way home.’  
  
‘But I …’  
  
‘But me no buts, Sherlock Holmes. Just get yourself cleaned up and go.’  
  
I stare at her for a moment, widening my eyes and allowing my bottom lip to tremble slightly.  
  
‘And that doesn’t work on me anymore,’ she says dismissively, chivvying me off the lab stool and nearly tripping me up in her haste to get me over to the sink.  
  
‘What are you trying to hide from me?’ I ask as I wash my hands. ‘What is it you’re planning to do that I can’t be here for.’  
  
‘Do you really want the answer to that?’ Lestrade speaks from the doorway and Molly immediately turns the colour of an overripe nectarine.  
  
‘Not at all,’ I say icily as I shut down the mental images his insinuation has generated. ‘You’ve made yourself plain enough.’  
  
‘Goodnight then.’ Lestrade holds the door open, mouth twitching with suppressed laughter, and I’m barely three strides down the corridor before I hear it, low and rich, entwining with Molly’s girlish giggles. I quicken my stride, letting my sudden need to be back at home with John overwhelm the rest of my thoughts and drown out any notion of what else might be being entwined behind me.  
  
221B is quiet when– after abandoning my cab and walking thanks to the ridiculous amount of traffic; anyone would think it was some sort of holiday – I finally get home.  
  
Too quiet.  
  
I’m not expecting any noise from 221A; it's Mrs Hudson's evening at Mrs Turner's, talking about herbal soothers and soap operas or whatever unimportant trivia is occupying their minds this week. I’d be more concerned if I  _could_  hear anyone in there. However John said he would be home and, given the time, I should be able to hear the television and him clattering and clanging as he completes his Thursday night ritual of making what he – tellingly - refers to as a barracks balti, to go with whichever piece of popular culture he’s decided I need educating in this week. In fact I should be able to smell the mix of turmeric, cumin, coriander and chilli from here.  
  
I can’t.  
  
Instead there is an eerie silence filled only by a faint hint of herbs, garlic, tomato and chicken which, irritatingly, makes my mouth water. I go completely still and concentrate, trying to identify every piece of data my senses can collect.  
  
There is no movement from above. The only things easily detectable are the low level buzz of the oven and a susurrus from the back of the house. John must have left the bathroom window open again. And yet there isn’t the feeling of emptiness that means no-one is here.  
  
I strain my ears. Is that the soft drag of someone’s breath? Has John just fallen asleep or …

Trying to ignore the feeling of dread that is creeping round the edges of my mind I shrug my coat off, to free my arms, and begin to climb the stairs.  
  
When I push the door, which has been left ajar, open the first thing I see is John - clad in the black jeans and wine red shirt I gave him for Christmas - leaning on the wall at the side of the window. He's staring out at the street and gives no sign he’s heard me arrive. I part my lips to ask what is going on but, as I take a proper look round the room, I press them tightly together again without making a sound.

The flat is pristine. Not a single piece of clutter in sight, not a thing out of place bar Skull, which has been relocated to the centre of the coffee table. Looking to my left reveals an equally tidy kitchen, the table laid up properly for a three course meal and sporting a bottle of my favourite burgundy.  
  
It’s not my birthday, it’s definitely not John’s, and there are no momentous – to those who set store by such things – dates relating to the course of our relationship occurring this month, so I am at a loss as to what could have prompted him to go to all this trouble. I turn back, hoping a more thorough look at his stance will allow me to deduce what has happened, only to meet his eyes. He’s still using the wall as a prop but now he’s facing me and the look on his face is not one I can easily identify. Not that I’ve never found him straightforward to read, especially when it comes to what he’s feeling. It’s one of the things I find so fascinating about him and, usually, something I treasure but at this moment, I wish he was as transparent as the majority of the insufferable people who fill this world.

Stepping towards him wins me a wary look, his whole body tensing slightly and I’m suddenly reminded, very strongly, of the incident with Mummy’s cat. I seem to have deleted what I actually did to the godforsaken animal - although I do know it never let me near it again - but I can vividly recall standing in front of Father, after the shouting had died down, waiting for him to ask me to explain. I can still see myself reflected in the window behind him, looking exactly as John does now; expression and stance both emanating an uneasy mix of defiance and fear.  
  
The feeling of dread surges.  
  
What can have happened to make John look like this? To feel the need to turn the flat into a show home and cook me what, now I can smell it properly, is definitely John’s attempt at Grandmere Lucille’s chicken provencal? I cannot, in truth, imagine that he would ever be unfaithful to me but this is definitely something to do with our relationship. After all, such behaviour is, according to those appalling magazines Mrs Hudson’s so fond of, just the sort of thing they advise people to do when they want to break bad news gently. Was I right when I considered the possibility that, having spent ten and half months as partners in every sense of the word, John has now realised this sort of relationship isn’t what he wants? Is he going to tell me he just wants to be friends?  
  
I realise that my hands are clenching at my sides, my jaw is shut so tightly my teeth are aching and the speed my heart is beating is more suited to someone completing a marathon rather than just standing in the middle of the living room like a gormless idiot.

Taking a deep breath I attempt to decide which of the six possible sentences that are trying to force their way out of my mouth I should allow to escape when I realise that John’s eyes are moving between me and Skull's new position on the table. Only ….  
  
Dear Lord, is this how normal people are all the time? So distracted by their feelings that they miss the obvious? For Skull isn’t alone; two small piles of silvery metal are set either side of her, identical in colour and placement. I’m not aware of moving over to them but I immediately recognise the items once I reach for the nearest. Except, when I scoop it up and let the chain run through my fingers until I catch the cool circles of metal, the information etched into them isn’t what I expect to see.  
  
These are not John’s dog tags, these are …. Mine? I blink, wondering if I’ve somehow started hallucinating but the inscription remains the same:  
  
A+  
3673837  
Watson-Holmes  
SKS  
  
When I lift my head to check, John is looking at me expectantly; lower lip caught between his teeth and fingers curling and uncurling spasmodically. Is this … is he? I think again about the deliberate placement of Skull _between_ the sets of tags and then I gather up the second set to confirm my thoughts:  
  
O-  
3673837  
Watson-Holmes  
JH  
  
‘Till death do us part?’ I ask, uncaring that my voice is shaking slightly.  
  
‘Yes.’ There is nothing but certainty and strength in John’s voice as he pushes away from the wall and, three strides later, comes to a halt right in front of me. His eyes search my face as he qualifies his statement with, ‘If it’s what you want, too.’  
  
Our eyes lock, the air between us almost humming with the tension as I mark the warmth and the love that is radiating out of those startlingly blue irises despite the fear that is still visible. Fear which, I can now see, has been entirely generated by the thought that I might reject what he is offering.  
  
‘I do,’ I say before I realise just how clichéd that sounds but John doesn’t seem to notice and I find I don’t care. Because the smile those two words have produced is so gloriously unguarded and blazing with unashamed delight that I’m having trouble drawing breath.  
  
‘Come here,’ he murmurs, hands closing round mine and I expect him to pull me down and kiss me but instead he’s opening my hand and gently taking one set of tags out of my fingers. I bend swiftly, brushing my lips over his knuckles before drawing back slightly, leaving my head bowed. He slips them over my head and they settle on my chest, just over my heart. I return the favour at once and then I get my kiss; his fingers tangling in my hair, his lips pressed firmly to mine and my own knot of fear, deep in my chest, melts like butter in the sun.  
  
Eventually we break apart for longer than a few seconds and I lift his tags off his chest and stare at them, thinking – and not for the first time – that O negative, the universal donor, is such an appropriate blood type for a man who has dedicated his life to looking after others in a variety of ways.  
  
‘I can get new ones,’ he says, nestling his head into the curve of my neck. ‘If you’d rather our names were the other way round.’  
  
‘No.’ I absently press a kiss to the top of his head. ‘Watson-Holmes is just fine. Do you have a date in mind?’  
  
‘I thought I ought to leave something to you to decide.’ He grins up at me and I find that I have a new appreciation for the solar system, for he is surely the sun round which I orbit.  
  
‘I’d say tomorrow if it were possible.’ I tighten my arms round him and wonder at this side of myself; a side that I still don’t quite recognise, complete with feelings that, despite still not fully understanding them, I would not trade for any case Lestrade could bring me.  
  
‘Mycroft could probably arrange it,’ John muses but I’m only half listening, distracted by the number that would, if these were real dog tags, be our Military IDs.  
  
Seven digits. Not a date and not phone number but … I close my eyes briefly and try to think as if I were John. It has to mean something, otherwise he’d just have omitted it altogether - like the space below our names where our religions would be denoted, if they were relevant – so what am I not …. Ah!  
  
I run my finger underneath the numbers and say, with a certain amount of satisfaction in my voice, ‘Forever.’  
  
‘Forever,’ he echoes, twisting and then rocking up, with his hands on my shoulders, to breathe the rest of his words over my lips. ‘Forever and always.’

**Author's Note:**

>  **Note the first** \- British Army dog tags are circular, rather than oblong, and look like this:
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://kizzia.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/528/13165)  
>   
> 
> 
> And yes, these are mine. My other half got them made for me by the firm that supplies the Army and they are exactly like those currently issued to our troops. I was quite amused by the “ID” number he chose for me (not to mention quite impressed that he knew my blood type) and they were, as you’ve probably guessed, the catalyst for this fic.
> 
>  **Note the second** – you can read this as being on Valentines Day because I’ve posted it on Valentines Day but I deliberately left it vague in the text because, in all honesty, I don’t think John would choose to propose on such an obvious date. Unless, of course, Molly only agreed to help if he did on such a “romantic” occasion.
> 
>  **Note the third** – The code John used to put Forever on the tags is simple. The numbers correspond to the letters allocated to them on a phone keypad.
> 
>  **Note the fourth** – I have given Sherlock’s initials as SKS because the minute I read “Sherlock Kingsley Shackleton Holmes” in [Two Two One Bravo Baker](http://archiveofourown.org/works/180121/chapters/264839) those two middle names became my head cannon and I could not, despite trying, come up with anything else that felt right. I hope no one minds!
> 
>  **Note the fifth** – I do not normally write in the first person so please feel free to critique this in as much detail as you like. Actually, writing it in this POV was the justification I used in my head to excuse the fact I’ve started my Death Cab for Cutie series with this - when I should be concentrating on either my half finished novel length Sherlock fic, my Johnlock story for the Mills  & Boon Panfandom challenge or any of the other twenty things I have on my to-write list - so you’d be doing me a huge favour by constructively ripping it to shreds!
> 
>  **Note the sixth** – I make no apologies for the high volume of fluff in the fic. It’s Valentines Day - fluff is mandatory :)


End file.
